


Is this the promised end?

by theunwillingheart



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Kepler is a bad man, People as things, References to Shakespeare, SI-5, that's where it starts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 00:23:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunwillingheart/pseuds/theunwillingheart
Summary: "You think you know me? That you've met me? No. You've met the Artist Formerly Known as Warren Kepler. You've met my job. Aside from that, there's no one left for you to know. I'm gone."Show's over, there will be no encores."Spoilers through Mini Episode 14: One of Them.





	Is this the promised end?

“You and myself, we have—how is it said in this country—right way of approach.”  Dr. Dmitri Vologin is smiling.

Major Warren Kepler does not smile back.  He flips through the grant application, scanning headings, glancing at charts.  “Mm-hm.  And what’s that.”

“Natural progression.  Humans distinguished by tool use, ya?  First tools—sticks and stones.  Then fire and metal.  Now—electricity and silicon.  Next is most powerful tool from the rest.  Is other people.”

Vologin’s English is better than this.  Not by much, but definitely better.  And Kepler is not a fool.

“And by that, you mean?” he prompts, feigning patience he does not have.

“You are expert at directing human mind,” says Vologin ingratiatingly, “and my work has target of directing human body.”

Kepler throws the sheaf of papers down onto his desk and looks the scientist in the eye.

“You want us to sink billions of dollars into human experiments conducted in space,” he says.

Kepler has to hand it to Vologin—he doesn’t even flinch.  “In a manner of speaking—”

“No.  Not ‘In a manner of speaking’,” Kepler interjects.  “The correct answer, Doctor, is ‘Yes, sir’.”

No flinching, no hesitation either.  “Yes, sir.”

“Fine.”  Kepler flips to the last page and uncaps his signing pen.  “Cutter seems to appreciate your work with us thus far.  I look forward to seeing your _results_.”  He places special emphasis on the last word as he dates his signature and hands the packet back across the desk.

“Thank you, Major.”  Vologin stands, bobbing a stiff half-bow as he leaves.

“And Doctor?”

Vologin turns from the door.

“Don’t ever try to sneak anything past me again.”

 

Daniel Jacobi is an easy mark, plied readily with expensive drinks and shows of sympathy.

This, thinks Kepler, as he studies the way his tumbler catches the light and nods along to Jacobi’s story, is the key to successful recruitment.  You don’t waste your time on the ones riding high on life, the up-and-comers.  You keep an eye out for the unlucky ones, the disaffected, the restless.  You watch them sway and stumble, then give them a little push—and watch as they fall right into your arms.

Jacobi is very good at making things that break other things.  He says this with an alcohol-studded bluntness while trying and failing to conceal his pride, still undestroyed by two years away from his trade.

Kepler is very good at making people who break other people.  He doesn’t say this, but Jacobi soon learns it, all the same.

 

“Colonel, you _know_ I can’t do that.”

Kepler is not interested in this old, tired game.  “You _can’t_?  Really?  Three years of working in the SI-5, and this is what you balk at?  I never expected an expert in mathematical communication to be so… inconsistent.”

Dr. Alana Maxwell keeps pushing, regardless.  “Hera _trusts_ me.  I patched her electroneural bleed.  I streamlined her I/O and data processing.  I put her through an experimental state of memory consciousness and unearthed her deepest traumas.  You can’t just expect me to _betray_ her after all of that.  You _have_ to think of something better.  Colonel—”

Kepler lets her keep talking.  He is not concerned.  You don’t get very far in this business without being able to predict the outcome of most conversations, and Kepler knows exactly how this one will end.  It had taken some effort, converting what had originally been Maxwell’s dearly-held ethical framework into a set of largely-performative, easily-managed scruples.  But the process ended a long time ago, and this is not the first time they have had this conversation.  The truth is, if Maxwell really believed what she wanted to believe, if she still had any kind of conviction left in her, she wouldn’t be here.  They both know this.  And yet.

“Maybe we could _talk_ to Hera, talk to all of them.  We could eliminate the need for acts of force and _work_ with the autopilot to—”

Needless to say, they will not be doing any of these things.  It is absolutely ridiculous of Maxwell to even suggest them. 

“I can’t go back on my promise to—”

If Kepler were the kind of person to feel bad, he would.  It’s not easy, holding the kind of position that Maxwell does, especially in her line of work.  You find yourself out of touch with experts on both sides of the debate.  On the one hand, there are those like Maxwell’s former colleagues at the Nash, who could support AI rights in theory but who thwart all efforts to develop programming complex enough for such rights to be applicable.  On the other hand, there are those like Dr. Pryce, who have no fears about creating all manner of fully-integrated artificial intelligences—but who also believe firmly in ruling those intelligences with an iron fist.  It’s rare to find a scientist who holds the radical third view, someone willing to welcome new lifeforms into the world with open arms and no strings attached.  Dr. Maxwell used to be one of those rarities.  Now, though-

“Enough, Alana.  You have said your part, and now it’s over.  We’ve been through this recently enough that I refuse to go through it again.  To wit: you are employed for specific reasons, and none of these have anything to do with your morals.  I trust that I’ve made myself clear.”

He has.  On many occasions.  This is not the first time they have had this conversation.

But it will be the last.

 

“Is this the promised end?”

Everything that Jacobi has said into the silence of their cell thus far has been an obvious provocation, but Kepler can’t seem to help himself lately.

“What was that?” he asks.  Jacobi pretends not to hear.

“You can Google ‘King Lear’,” Kepler drawls, working to maintain his usual air of affable derision.  “I’m very impressed.”

Jacobi stares out the observation window into the blue light of Wolf 359.

“You were right,” Jacobi says eventually.  “You thought you were being clever with that line, back when we first met, but you were more right than you knew.”

“Daniel—”

“King Lear was an idiot well past his prime.  He didn’t have an ounce of authority, and he didn’t deserve Kent’s loyalty.  Or Cordelia’s love.”

Kepler used to be so good at playing the silence, at drawing it out.  “I never knew you had such a deep appreciation for the classics,” he snipes back.

“Yeah, well.  There’s a lot you don’t know, isn’t there.”

Years ago, Kepler and Jacobi found themselves locked in a room about to explode, with everything to gain and everything to lose.  Now they are locked up again, with nothing either to gain or lose, and something else is about to explode.  Hilbert is gone.  Maxwell is gone.  And Kepler has lost both his right hand and his right-hand man.

But the Colonel still has himself.  He still has the Artist Formerly Known as Warren Kepler, his job, the canceled show with no encores, all of it.  That’s all he has; that’s all he’s ever really had.

All that’s left to do now is convince himself that that is enough.


End file.
